


Impressions

by potofsoup



Category: Captain America (Movies)
Genre: Gen
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-07-16
Updated: 2014-07-16
Packaged: 2018-02-09 03:54:56
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,568
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1967997
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/potofsoup/pseuds/potofsoup
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>When you first saw the Winter Soldier striding towards you, stepping off the roof of that car, swinging his arms and his hips with deliberation, you knew something felt wrong.  Or right.  The way he walked felt ... familiar.  Familiar in a way that nothing has felt like since you woke up from your death 2 years ago.  It got under your skin somehow -- wormed deep into the small of your back and you suddenly smelled long-gone Brooklyn alleyways -- musty with a hint of wet laundry mingled with frying fish.  Your back ached.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Impressions

    
(gifs from [here](http://magpieandwhale.tumblr.com/post/89077237655/bucky-barnes-the-winter-soldier-oh-my-god-the))

When you first saw the Winter Soldier striding towards you, stepping off the roof of that car, swinging his arms and his hips with deliberation, you knew something felt wrong. Or right. The way he walked felt ... familiar. Familiar in a way that nothing has felt like since you woke up from your death 2 years ago. It got under your skin somehow -- wormed deep into the small of your back and you suddenly smelled long-gone Brooklyn alleyways -- musty with a hint of wet laundry mingled with frying fish. Your back ached.

Now: 

He isn't Bucky but he isn't the Winter Soldier either. He *is*, however, staying in your apartment and getting into trouble at night. One moment he'd be sitting in a dark corner or lying awkwardly stiff in bed, and the next moment the window would be open and he'd be out on the rooftops of Brooklyn. So you learn to keep watch and go after him. He never objects to you walking with him, because after all, you're Steve. Instead he just lurches forward with that gait into the darkness -- and the only way you can keep up as he goes from rooftop to rooftop and down fire escapes is to match him, pelvic twist to leg swing, stride for stride. It's not what you prefer -- it triggers phantom pain in your lower back from the days before the serum, when you walked this way just to keep up with the other kids. Well, now you walk this way again, to keep up with him, to keep him out of trouble. 

\-----------

"Who the hell is Bucky?" he'd said, in an voice that reminded you home and the ice man refilling ice boxes and the mothers who'd sit on the fire escape and yell after their children. Rumlow was saying something and waving a gun around, but nothing quite registers, because you're back in Brooklyn, back in another losing fight and wiping blood off your face. You're hearing that familiar voice come from behind the bully -- his voice tinged with amusement and resignation as he knocked out the other guy and then playfully punched you in the arm. "Really, Steve? He's got at least 200 pounds on you." "I had him on the ropes," you spit out as you got up, unsteady, bitter that you needed help, but thankful that he was there. He pulls you into a headlock and lets you punch him a bit, because he knows that you had a bad day at school and really needed to fight against something, anything. He tells a few jokes, punches you in the arm again, and you both laugh. You try to rub your sore arm and that's when you realized that you're shackled in an armored van, that Bucky is alive and Bucky didn't know you. Your arm still felt sore but you didn't feel like laughing.

Now:

It's so absurd that you can't help but laugh -- he knows you so well but he doesn't know that he's Bucky. He calls you Steve, finds you the perfect drawing pencils, and knows that you like your popcorn well-buttered. "Thanks, Bucky," you say, but he just shakes his head. "No, Bucky is James Buchanan Barnes, your childhood friend." You pull him to the bathroom mirror and hold up a picture of Bucky. "No, you're him, you're Bucky." He looks at the picture, and then: "Sorry I look like your friend, Steve. But don't worry, I'll help you find him." 

You laugh, because it's too absurd, because you refuse to cry. Then you go out to a pub and glare at some hooligan in the back corner until he gets up and asks to take it outside. You let the guy get 10 punches in before you knock him out. You hear his voice as the guy drops -- "Really, Steve?" He gives you a look: patient, concerned, amused. You manage an "I don't..." before he punches you in the arm. Hard. "What are you..." "C'mon, punk," he growled playfullly, "Punch someone who *isnt'* stupid." Then he takes you into a headlock and you punch him because you know he can take it. He says something funny and you laugh and feel better. Your arm is sore in that same old spot and it was the first time you'd laughed together in 70 years. 

"If you're not Bucky, what should I call you?" 

He shrugs. "Does it matter, Steve?"

"Jerk."

\-----------

Even though you couldn't see straight out of one eye and there were at least four bullets working their way through you, you knew the exact moment when he remembered you. Maybe you finally looked bloody enough to trigger some deep memory, but his left arm twitched and moved towards the pocket where Bucky'd always keep the extra bandages and salve. A look of utter confusion as his hand found nothing and he loosened his grip on you. But you smiled as you fell, back again in your tiny apartment where Bucky jabs at your bleeding forehead with some iodine, feeling the sting and then the coolness of the bandage as he tsks you like a mother hen. Your forehead still stings when you hit the water. At the end of the line, he remembered you and that was all that mattered.

Now:

When you go out on missions together (because you and Fury both know better to try to keep him at home) he always carefully packs a medkit in his left waist pocket. "Shouldn't you also pack a screwdriver, idiot?" you ask. He punches you with his left arm and says "What for?" And it's true: no matter how many wounds he's bleeding from, he always prefers to stumble back to Avengers tower and turn himself over to Tony's team of medics. You wonder why he even takes the effort to pack the kit. But then, one mission, a bullet finds its way deep into your thigh and suddenly he was beside you, expertly digging out that bullet and sealing the wound. "Thanks, mom." You jab him in the arm and he laughs. "You should do that for the bullet in your left shoulder." He turns to examine his shoulder, registering the bullet hole for the first time. "Here, let me." Gently, you take his medkit, extract the bullet, and seal the wound. If he can't remember himself, you'll have to do the remembering for him. You flex your legs, laughing as you feel the sting of Tony's specialized salve. At least this way you get matching scars.

\--*---*--*---*--*---*--

It's been 6 months and you're almost used to it -- this man who walks like Bucky and makes jokes like Bucky and bandages you up like Bucky, but isn't Bucky. You tried to remind him what Bucky's like, told him stories you remember. It never worked. Then today it hit you that you never really knew Bucky. Sure, you knew what Bucky was like with you, but he already is all that. You remembered that Bucky liked to go on dates with girls and liked swing dancing, but you knew equally well that those were just distractions, and not *really* Bucky. You knew that Bucky never wanted the war, but you wanted it so bad you never bothered to ask what he *did* want. So it turns out you *can't* remember for him. All you can do now is walk with him, laugh with him, fight with him, and bandage him. Just like old times.

Maybe that's the best you're going to get: this man who is all that Bucky had been to you, except himself.

You start calling him Winter. He doesn't object.

\-------------------

One evening, you're sitting at the table idly sketching a raccoon with a metal arm. Winter is polishing some knives in the other room. You're working hard on getting the highlights on the arm just right when you feel him next to you. Winter has a way of being quiet that Bucky never managed.

"Hungry? Let me finish this and maybe we'll make something. I'm thinking Indian..."

He grabs you by both shoulders and pushes you against a wall.

"Winter?" You know he won't harm you, but this is ... new. Different from the well-worn trails across the rooftops and the well-worn jokes of the past 6 months.

Next thing you knew his mouth was on yours, and you remember the way he would kiss the girls he picked up at the dance hall. You remember the smell of the cigarettes from the dance hall mingling with the smell of the girl's perfume as you walked home together, him pulling you into a headlock as your back sends up spikes of pain from walking all day. You wanted to ask what kissing's like, but you were afraid you'd be too jealous to fake a proper laugh.

"You're a lousy kisser, Steve. Close your mouth a bit and stop slobbering over me." Winter's voice brings you back to the present and you oblige. The next kiss is long and slow. You wrap your arms around him and your back doesn't hurt at all. He gives you a gentle tug -- no headlock this time -- and leads you to the couch.

"Winter?" You hesitate. This is all too new. "Bucky?"

He smiles. "Come on, Steve. I want this."

So you stop trying to make sense of it, and instead make new memories with your bodies.

**Author's Note:**

> The more body-focused, visceral version of events.
> 
> I wrote this, didn't like it, and then wrote Beyond Memory. But I guess they're just 2 different ways to get to the same thing: Steve and Bucky's bodies remember each other, but neither are the same person that they were in 1940, so they need to readjust to each other, make new memories.


End file.
